


the children rage (they hurt)

by Megeara



Series: Bricks in the Walls [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alzur can suck an egg, Feral Arnaghad, Feral Erland of Larvik, Fights, First Meetings, Gen, The First Generation of Witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:20:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28077594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megeara/pseuds/Megeara
Summary: Erland is 10 years old when his mother sells him to Alzur. On his first day he picks a fight and gains a friend.Or: a look into the lives of the first witchers. Kid edition.
Relationships: Erland of Larvik & Arnaghad, Erland of Larvik (The Witcher) & Arnaghad (The Witcher)
Series: Bricks in the Walls [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2056908
Comments: 12
Kudos: 12
Collections: The Faded Texts





	the children rage (they hurt)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rawrkinjd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/gifts), [minutiae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minutiae/gifts).



The boy is big. Looking at his corded arms and wide shoulders, Erland would even think intimidating, if not for their circumstances. Next to the fancily dressed Sorcerer, whose voice dripped honey when he asked Erland about his health, the boy feels like the smaller threat.

Erland is good at catching threats. As the nightly lookout of a Skelligen ship he needed to develop keen senses less he became a smear on the deck by the arms of a kraken or beaks of harpies. Not a fortnight ago he sliced that fucker Elisedd good because he caught him trying to steal his carefully hidden dried fruits. They were his favourites, Freya take him. It’s just his luck that Vanja wasn’t pleased with his reasoning.

Erland shifts his grip on his handaxe, feeling the ache in his knuckles and catching his blurry reflection in the shine. That might be the reason Vanja sold him, come to think of it. But again, his mother was never fond of him. Would have punted him off the side of the ship to the sirens were he not better used as a deckhand.

Would his life be any different, now that he’s out of her sight? Erland doesn’t know, but as he looks at the assortment of kids, his blood boils. Most look scared, acting like _tralls_ on a leash, drawn within themselves. That can’t be his future.

His slitted eyes meet the dark gaze of the boy. Dark brown simmers with the same quiet rage that brews in Erland’s chest. Erland makes a show of hooking his axe to his hip. The boy follows the motion with keen eyes. His fingers twitch into fists. Erland slows his steps to get a little distance between the group, the boy following suit.

Their sides brush. “We sneak away from the camp when the moon is at its zenith,” he proposes quietly. He feels under scrutiny, but keeps his gaze on the mage’s back.

The boy’s murmur is thick with an accent Erland can’t identify. “ _Sooka_. I am not running.”

Erland has to stifle the urge to roll his eyes. Freya protect him. “Not running! _Gòrach_. Fighting.” He mimes it in the air, a fist lashing out to hit an invisible foe.

The boy snorts so loud a girl looks back from the group questioningly. He bumps his shoulder into Erland hard enough that he almost staggers. “ _Koorosau_ ,” he nods, and rejoins the group.

That night the Sorcerer draws a circle around their camp. Erland watches as it flashes a yellow semi-globe around them, than the effect disappears altogether.

“What does it do?” he asks Alzur. A girl next to him curls into herself defensively.

The Sorcerer hums thoughtfully. “Just a little precaution. There are many beasts wandering around here.” His smile flashes white from his well-groomed beard. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

When Erland was five, they escorted a merchant from one island to the mainland. He had a way with words that he never heard before. Erland called it shadow tongue, because you always had to look behind the words to understand their true meaning.

Now, looking at Alzur’s pleasant face, Erland thinks that the mage knows shadow tongue too. He imagines that what the Sorcerer actually means here is this: _“It’s a precaution, so you wouldn’t escape. I don’t want you hurt because I want to use you.”_

Waves take him. Erland swiftly surveys the range of the circle. Luckily it’s big enough that they can still have a scuffle if they are careful.

The mage proceeds to magic a fire, blankets and hearty meal for them then retreats to his cozy-looking tent. Erland lays down with his back to the fire, maiming sleep. The low chatter slowly quiets down as the kids nod of. The sky is clear, and the waxing moon gives a low light. Erland slowly sits up, and he sees the boy follow. The beads in the boy’s long, braided hair click quietly.

They make their way behind the tent out of sight. Erland lifts his fists, shifting into a stance that he learned on the ship. He leaves the axe on his hip as the other raises his own.

“Rules?” he asks.

“No rules,” the boy grins, surging forward.

Erland sidesteps him nimbly, knowing better than to take the brunt of strength like that. He puts out a feet to trip him instead, letting the other’s momentum do the work. The boy catches himself in time before he eats dirt, swiveling back to protect his back.

“Rules?” Erland asks again.

The boy measures him, then spits onto the ground. “Fine. No weapons, no permanent injury, first one to tap out loses,” he rattles off as he reaches into his leathers and discards two pocketknives to the side. Erland leaves his handaxe with the sharp things.

The moment his axe drops, the boy is on him. Erland’s fist meets the boy’s kidney, as his head snaps to the side by the force of a hit. Adrenalin surges in his veins and he tongues the split in his mouth. He takes a step back, lets the boy chase him as he delivers swift strikes to his stomach and sides.

He has to play this smart; he can’t win this by sheer force. The boy is taller and wider than him, but he’s used to these kinds of odds. He brought down bigger men before.

Another fist comes for his neck and this time Erland grabs onto the arm and pulls. The boy clearly didn’t expect that, as he flails with the other arm ineffectively. Erland’s knee meets the boy’s stomach, and the air whistles out of tightly clenched teeth. Not to be outdone, the boy turns his head and bites into the meat of a shoulder.

Erland curses and grabs onto the boy’s hair, tugging on it non-too-gently, but the little tick is stuck for good. Giving it up, Erland curls an arm around the boy’s neck, trying to smother him. This time it’s the boy who trips him and Erland lands on his back, the other’s weight bearing down. He’s momentarily stunned and it gives enough time for the boy to straddle him. Erland puts up his arms just in time to shield from a blow, then another.

In the heat of the moment Erland sees only one option that ends with him coming out top.

He knees the boy in the balls.

The boy’s voice cracks high. “ _Blyaat_!” Curling up he falls off of Erland onto his side.

Erland takes a moment to breathe. “That wasn’t in the rules,” he points out, feeling defensive and a little ashamed.

The boy laughs roughly and turns to face him. A lopsided smile stretches his lips. “You’re alright,” he extends his hand and Erland clasps his forearm uncertainly, the way he he saw warriors do. “I am Arnaghad.”

“Erland,” he offers, than adds belatedly, a little sour. “Of Larvik.”

“Well, that’s touching,” comes a voice from behind them. The boys turn as if burnt. Alzur has his back to a tree, arms crossed as he watches them with bemused interest. Erland darts a quick glance to the line of circle; in their tussle they forgot about it, and now the line is broken.

Alzur smiles at him knowingly. “I didn’t appreciate the abrupt wake-up call, but you put on such a good show I might just forgive you.”

Arnaghad mutters something in his mother tongue and Alzur answers in the same language, sharp and curt. Then he says, dismissive, “Regardless, I don’t want to catch you pummeling each other. This kind of behaviour is not tolerated and will be punished were you to repeat it. Now go back to sleep.”

As the boys go to collect their weapons Erland catches Alzur musing under his breath. “Good batch. You might just make it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Notes for the words in italics:  
> \- Elisedd: Gaelic name, meaning “kind”. The irony amused me.  
> \- Trall: Skelligen, meaning slave  
> \- Sooka: Butchered Russian, ‘suka’ means bitch  
> \- Gòrach: Old gaelish, meaning stupid  
> \- Koorosau: Butchered Russian, ‘khorosho’ means okay  
> \- Blyaat: Butchered Russian, ‘blyat’ means fuck
> 
> The fic was already posted on tumblr, but I thought I'd transfer it to here.  
> I don't expect this pairing to blow up, but here I am writing for them anyway. Curse of the rare pair, I guess. Love me some feral little shits.  
> I'm marking this as a series, because I have sooo many ideas.
> 
> Kudos and comments are, as always, my nectar.  
> Find me on tumblr as hungarianbee <3


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